Balance
by Whatever Makes You Break
Summary: Rick owes his life to a mysterious woman he never expects to see again. When their paths do end up crossing again, Rick isn't the only one surprised to see a familiar face. Rick/OC
1. Prologue

_**Prologue **_

_What's in a Name?_

–

_Saints are sinners who kept on going._

–

"Dumb motherfucker," she muttered, leaping like an elegant huntress from a weathered log back onto the dry and cracking prairie grass. "Look at this stupid son of a bitch on his own, running from fuckin' Walkers; thinkin' he's John Wayne or somethin'."

She rolled her eyes as she ran, partially at the moron who got himself in such a dangerous situation and partially because she was talking to herself. This girl, this _woman_, had been chasing this _man_ for two miles into the heart of the Cynthiana Woods before she'd finally gotten the Walkers in her line of fire. She jerked back her arm once she found a good position atop a solid stump, slid the bow she sported over her back and reached for an arrow. With one swift motion she pulled back the string, propped up the arrow and released it. The arrow struck the first Walker in the back of the skull and knocked it down to the ground. The others kept running after the man (who was wearing a ridiculous hospital gown) as if the fallen Walker didn't exist to begin with.

Her long, thick braid of hair flew through the air as the young woman dug her heel into the slick dirt to cease her steps. She skidded by the fallen Walker, yanking her arrow from its skull without coming to a complete halt before carrying on after the man again.

The man gasped for air, he hadn't fully gotten his barrings or recovered from his gunshot wound for that matter and now he was on the run from some sort of deranged mental patients in a now unaccustomed world. He was seemingly alone, confused and unarmed. He hobbled along the path from the hospital he'd escaped from with a heavy limp, fearing he would reopen his wound. His heart was pounding so hard that he was certain it would explode within his chest. He had always considered himself a level-headed man, calm in chaotic situations, and the friend most could rely on for advice when things went to hell. However, this was a whole new ball game and he was sitting the bench. Hell, he wasn't even in the stadium anymore.

The second arrow went through the other Walker's temple, causing it to stagger for just a moment before toppling to the earth. The woman repeated her prior motions to retrieve her precious arrow again. The final Walker was a giant, over six feet and three hundred pounds and faster than he looked. The man wearing the hospital gown suddenly pummeled to the ground. His foot had struck an eroded root and lost his already unsteady balance. The Walker was only a yard or two behind him now, the man turned over and covered his face with his hands. The Walker opened his mouth wide, bending over to take a healthy bite of fresh human meat when an arrow head appeared straight through its mouth. A slight moan escaped its rotting lips before it began to topple forward. The man rolled over to the side to avoid the weight of the creature landing atop him. His heart still racing, he pushed himself back away from the Walker, further now as the woman approached to take back her arrow and place it in her arrow rest.

She hovered over him now, giving him a good look for the first time as he did the same to her. He was a handsome man, older than she was herself by a decade or so. He had shaggy hair and a slight beard but didn't appear as if he always kept himself that way because it didn't seem to suit him. The woman extended her hand for him to accept. His hand was disgustingly clammy, but she did not choose to comment.

"Wha–?" he began, unable to formulate a full thought.

Before he could go on the woman pulled a silver handgun from the back of her pants and made sure her target was right between his eyes. The woman was very pretty, shorter than average with pale skin and coal black hair. Her eyes were navy blue and a big as saucers. She wore tattered blue jeans and brown leather boots with a plaid shirt. She looked like a farmer but there was no denying her specialty was to hunt.

"I see you're wearing a bandage," she said, suddenly on edge. "Is that a bite?"

"A what?" he stammered.

"A bite," she repeated. "Tell me why you're wearing bandages, or I will shoot you dead. I gave you another chance at life, and I won't hesitate to take it away. Now were you fucking bit or not?"

The man could see the tightness around the woman's mouth, the unsuppressed anger in her eyes under her thick black hood of lengthy eyelashes. She puffed a free falling strand of black hair from her eyes so carelessly, the man could tell it happened enough for the action to become involuntary. The woman shoved the tip of her gun against his forehead now, the cool metal chilling his perspiring skin. The man could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear. The man's vision was blurry. Most who suffered a gun shot wound had time to recover, time to rehabilitate in the hospital under the gentile care of trained doctors and nurses not escape from serial killers only to have a gun pointed in their face a minute later. His mouth was dry and his head foggy from dehydration and sheer delirium. He opened his mouth to respond, but his weak body struck the ground without a moment's hesitation. His mind went black and his world was darker.

–

As the night's mists burned away, Cynthiana, Georgia took form around them, emerging ghostlike from the predawn gloom. The woman had never been to Cynthiana before, unfamiliar with area entirely, but she knew it was a typical place-to-raise-a-family type of town, a local High School with dreams of someday having their football team win State, Stepford wives with their 2.5 kids at every Piggly Wiggly, and the hottest gossip only being the new stop light over off Fremont Street. The man, however, knew that the town was never more beautiful than at the break of day. West of Main Street, Ma Pratchett's Bakery sat at the end of a long line of churches and banks and would release the sweet scent of freshly baked donuts, cakes and cookies each and every morning that would make anyone with working sensory organs come running. Upriver, the sun would shine so bright off this one particular spot on the Cynthiana River (which was much more of a creek than a river) that you'd swear you'd go blind from looking directly at it. Downstream, the trees grew so thick that from far a person could question if anyone could squeeze between the mass density of tree trunks. On warm summer nights, the local kids would gather round the Cynthiana woods and double dog dare each other to go in alone as is some sort of terrifying creature would escape and eat them alive. Now-a-days they'd be right.

His eyes opened slowly, taking in the dim natural lighting as his slitted eyes found the strength to widen. His vision was still blurry as hell, but he could see light – he was alive, for now. He could feel a cool sensation on his forehead that felt so heavenly, he prayed to the good Lord for it to never end. Blinking several times, light turned to colors, colors turned to shapes and shapes turned to fully restored vision. He motioned to move his hand to rub his eyes only to realize his hands were constrained by ropes; tied around the posts of the four poster bed he rested upon. His hospital gown was removed as will leaving him shirtless, only his boxer shorts to clothe his aching body.

"Finally," an all too familiar female voice sighed in an exasperated sort of way.

The woman who had saved his life only to threaten to take it away was leaning over him. She sat at his bedside, and it was that woman who was responsible for the cool feeling upon his forehead. She was dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth, occasionally bringing it down to his cheeks and neck. His chest rose and fell a bit quicker when he realized he was constrained but a large part of him felt that this woman would not hurt him even considering their history.

"Where am I?" he breathed.

"Safety," she replied curtly in her thick Southern accent, "that's all you need to know for now."

"How did I get here?"

"I dragged your sorry ass," she said, growing tired of his question in a hurry. "Try losing some weight by the way – ever heard of Adkins? That no carbs, all protein diet – the Walkers seem mighty fond of it–"

"_Walkers_?"

"Those things that were chasing you earlier," she frowned, looking at him as if he was an idiot. "Where have you been...?"

"Rick," he said. "Rick Grimes."

"Well, Rick Grimes, I would have thought you–"

"Wait, aren't you going to tell me your name?"

"No," she replied as if he'd asked her the time. "As I was saying those–"

"You killed those people today," he interrupted as if he was accusing her of a crime.

"_People_?" she scoffed, laughing lightly. "Those weren't people, you idiot – those were _Walkers_. They were people once but not now – not anymore."

"I don't– I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "They were people, but it was like they were decaying. I saw them when I woke up at the hospital. Some were missing body parts – open wounds and couldn't still be able to move around or breathe for that matter but they started chasing after me like they want to get me or–"

"They wanted to eat you," she said, looking him square in the eyes. "Listen, Rick Grimes, I don't know what your story is and frankly I don't really care, but those things that were chasing you today – those Walkers – aren't people. They're not your friends, they're not going to see your face and suddenly realize what they're doing is wrong, that they're thirst for human blood is wrong. Believe me. You have two options when facing a Walker; run or fight back. I favor the latter."

"How can you kill something that is already dead?"

"I don't know why, so don't bother askin'," she said firmly, "but fuckin' up their brain is what ends 'em. If you can destroy their brain then you can destroy them."

"How do you know that?"

"Trial and error," she smirked, and Rick couldn't help but smirk too.

Rick went to itch his chin before he rembered his hands were tied again. He jerked his wrists involuntarily and looked up to his female counterpart for assistance.

"Can you untie me?" he asked, his arms beginning to ache.

"Not up to me," she shrugged, leaning back and taking the cool rag with her.

"Then who–?"

A burly, dark complected man and his son walked in just as Rick asked his half-question. He was carrying a gun, cocked and ready and the still unnamed woman appeared unfazed as Rick squirmed only slightly.

"He up yet?"

"Bright eyed and bushy tailed," the woman said sarcastically, unmoving from his side.

"What of his wound?" asked the man anxiously, threateningly. "Is it a bite?"

"Hasn't come up," she shrugged casually.

"Hasn't come up?" he snapped. The man shook his head at her and turned his attention back onto Rick. "Mister, what was it – the wound?"

"It was a gunshot," said Rick.

"Anything else?" asked the man.

"Gunshot ain't enough?" Rick replied and the woman snorted.

"Listen, I ask and you answer – common courtesy, right?" the man spat, pointing the gun closer at Rick's forehead.

"It was just a gunshot, Morgan," said the woman, gently placing her long, slender fingers on the barrel to cause him to lower his weapon. Rick could see he wasn't very determined to kill him judging by how easy it was for the woman to push down the gun with her faint touch. "I changed the bandage myself. I looked for any other cuts or scratches – nothin'. He ain't even got a fever."

Morgan slowly lowered his gun enough to place it in his belt. He looked back to his son who stared with wide eyes. He wore a defeated expression. Rick had been born with an uncanny expression to be able to read people. From a young age he could judge whether or not someone was trustworthy or a friend worth keeping, good or evil and so on. He could tell that Morgan was a good man just by looking at him. Rick had been wrong on an occasion or two, however, and he hoped this would not be one of those occasions. Morgan leaned over and drew his blade.

"Take a moment," he said, holding the tip of the knife an inch from Rick's eyes, "see how sharp it is. Try anything, and I will kill you with it. Don't you think I won't."

He then cut the ropes that bound Rick to the bed, looking to the woman after doing to. He turned to exit the room after doing to, affectionately leading his son with him. He nodded to Rick and the woman to follow.

"See," she teased, "ain't up to me."

"He your husband?" asked Rick, rubbing his sore wrists with rope rash.

"No," she laughed. "I met Morgan and Duane a couple days ago. We ran into each other passing through town – his wife had just... turned. She'd been scratched by a Walker and it didn't take long for it to turn her."

"You mean–"

"Oh, yeah I forgot to mention that," she began. "If you're scratched, bit or gnawed on or anything by a Walker you're done, gone, kaput, game over, buddy. You get this terrible fever, like your skin is going to melt right off your bones then you start to hallucinate and then your bones feel like they're gonna shatter, like glass – then you die. It ain't long after you die that you come back as a Walker. Have you been livin' under a damn rock or somethin'?"

"Basically," he said. "I've been in a coma."

"Well, you woke up at one hell of a convenient time, didn't ya?" she smirked, taking to her feet. She moved to the water basin to rinse the rag she'd dabbed his face with, turning her back to him. Rick slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling the immense pain in doing so. "What did you think you were doing out there today anyway? I spotted you next door and chased you as far as–"

"We're next door to my house?" he interrupted suddenly.

"You live next door?" she asked.

Rick looked around as if he hadn't really seen the room he occupied before, "Fred and Cindy Drake – this is their place. I've been here."

"Not anymore," she replied. "This whole goddamn town is deserted – everyone is dead."

"No," Rick spat, "my wife – my son are alive. I know they're alive at least they were when they left."

The woman paused her motions in the water basin, gnawing on a pregnant pause. She turned her head slightly to the side but did not look at him, "and how do you know that?"

"I found empty drawers in the bedroom, "said Rick with confidence. "They packed some clothes – not a lot but enough to travel. My wife took photo albums too. I'm telling you – they're alive."

"Then they're in Atlanta," said a voice from the doorway, coming from the little boy from before. The woman dried her hands and smiled down at him.

"You're right, Duane," she replied.

"Atlanta?"

"Refugee center there – big one," said Morgan. He reentered and leaned against the doorway, wiping his hands clean in a manner that lead Rick to believe he'd been cooking. "There was a broadcast before the airwaves went dead – told everybody to go Atlanta for resources and military protection."

"Plus that Center is there," said Duane.

"He means the Center for Disease Control," said Morgan. "Rumor has it they're trying to cure this thing. If you're family is still alive then I bet that's where they'll be."

"Then that's where I'm going," said Rick, getting to his feet only to immediately topple over in agony, gripping his aching wound. The woman moved quickly, kneeling down to grip Rick's forearm to steady him. He cringed in pain before turning to meet her gaze.

"Oh, no you're not," said the woman. "You're still recovering from that gunshot wound, and you're no good to anyone if you get an infection with us having no antibiotics. When you've gotten you're strength back in a few days I will personally help your reckless ass find a car and some supplies to get you the hell out of here before you get us all killed."

"I have to find them," he insisted.

"And you will," said Morgan, "but not like this. Now, everyone come on eat some breakfast – it's gettin' cold."

Morgan turned to return to the kitchen again and Duane followed suit. The woman helped Rick back onto a sitting position upon the side of the bed. He nodded his appreciation. She returned the favor before heading for the doorway and pausing for a moment more.

"The water is fresh in the basin if you'd like to clean up before you eat," she said. "After breakfast I'll make a run to your house and search for anything you'd like me to bring back for you – clothes, valuables or anything like that. Just let me know."

"Thanks," he said, half smiling at her from the bed.

"Don't mention it," she replied, turning back towards the door.

"No," he said, causing her to cease her steps once again. "I mean for everything. Thank you for saving my life."

She didn't reply or even more for that matter. It was like she had turned to stone, transformed into a statue before Rick's very eyes. The woman was not used to appreciation or gratitude for good deeds. It was not as if she had not committed kind acts, far from it. She had done many good deeds and been a grand member of society especially sense the end of it. However, she had not been thanked for any of her goodness, not once in fact. After what seemed like an eternity she cleared her throat and spoke a single word.

"Charlotte," she said.

"What?" Rick replied.

"My name," she said quietly. "It's Charlotte Broussard."

"Well, thank you, Charlotte Broussard," said Rick.

"You're welcome, Rick Grimes," she replied before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving Rick to look on after her.

–

_**A/N:** Well, this is my first Walking Dead fic so be gentle. I understand this is going to be hard to write because Rick is married to Lori with Carl in the mix, but I cannot stand Lori. I could go on for hours just listing my reasons for my hatred for her, but alas I must digress. I don't think I am alone, so I think it's alright if I write this little story. You will just have to wait and see how I turn things around. I am going to make sure this character I am creating will not be a Mary Sue. If you suspect she's turning into a Sue then let me know because I will turn her into a damn Walker. I'd rather see her as a Walker than a Lori-Acting-Mary-Sue. Thanks for reading._

_**Next Chapter:** We learn what Charlie was before the Walkers, where she was before she met up with Morgan and Duane, and Rick and Charlie grow closer against his better judgment._

–

**Review**


	2. Chapter 1

_**Chapter One**_

–

_Hell is empty and all the devils are here._

–

Rick awoke to a headache and a bad case of cottonmouth. He felt hung over, like he and Shane had had another night Lori disapproved of – down at the Crow's Nest and tied on a few that turned into a few dozen. He slowly rose to a sitting position, gripping his forehead and rubbing his temples. It was still very dark out, giving him the impression that he had indeed slept all day and into the late evening. He could hear the heavy drops of rain against the windows, a summer storm raging on outside. He thought the summer had been unseasonably dry, but he wasn't awake through enough of the summer to make such an accusation. A glass of water sat untouched upon the nightstand beside his bed. Rick gulped down the liquid as if he hadn't had a sip of water in months, savoring the warm water like it was liquid gold – and maybe now it almost was.

A faint tune caught Rick's attention. He was surprised he could hear anything through the thunder and rain outside. He gripped sore abdomen and slowly took to his feet. He took one step into the hall before Charlotte appeared, gripping an armful of items wrapped in a town, tight against her abdomen. She was wearing a black sports bra and a pair of small biker's spandex shorts, barefoot and mildly sweaty with her hair in a tight sock bun high atop her bed. Her stomach was toned, every muscle on her body flexed and visible. She paused when she saw him, a look of surprise and guilt on her face for only a moment. She quickly straightened up, obviously trying her best to seem unfazed.

"What the fuck are you lookin' at, Deputy Dumbass?" she snapped.

"Nothin'," he snorted. "I thought I heard music. What were you doing?"

"None of your goddamn business," she barked.

"I was just–"

"I'm tired and you should get some rest too," she replied, sweeping by him in a rush and actively trying to conceal the items wrapped in her arms. "You've got a big day tomorrow; you're training starts bright and early."

"Training?" said Rick with an upward inflection.

"What? Did you think I was going to let you go out and fend for yourself?" Charlotte scoffed. "Everybody needs to know how to defend themselves against Walkers."

"I think I can manage," he replied.

"You won't always have time to _think_ when you're up against a herd of hungry Walkers," she smirked, ignoring Rick as he opened his mouth to object. "Your training starts at eight. Sweet dreams, Ranger Rick."

Rick's jaw hung open as Charlotte hurried down the hall and into the Drake's spare bedroom, shutting the door swiftly behind her. He couldn't decide whether or not he liked Charlotte Broussard. She had saved his life in dramatic fashion, rescued him from inevitable death while risking her own neck in the process, but she was still insufferably crass and uncouth. She was young but not young enough to use immaturity and youth culture as an excuse for her vulgarity. Rick stared at her closed door for another thoughtful minute before crawling back into bed as instructed.

–

"Can I please go too?" asked Duane.

"Papa Bear said 'no' Little Man," said Charlotte, affectionately rubbing the top Duane's head. "Besides, we can't have a seasoned pro like you showin' up a rook – talk about intimidating."

"Come on, Charlie," he whined.

"Next time, I promise," she said, leaning over to meet his gaze and sending him a reassuring wink. "Look after your dad now, Duane. We'll be back by sunset."

Charlotte motioned for Rick to follow her out the front door. Rick 'borrowed' a pair of jeans and a white shirt left behind by Fred Drake that was nearly his size. His abdomen was still sore but bearable after taking some of the pain killers Cindy Drake had hidden in her top bedside drawer. He had anticipated his 'training session' with Charlotte would include ammunition and at least a couple semiautomatic weapons, but he was sorely mistaken in such an assumption. No, he had been provided with an ax and a metal baseball bat. Charlotte sported a bow and a hodgepodge of both store bought and hand-carved arrows on her back along with a crowbar. Each of them packed a only a solitary handgun in the back of their pants with no bullets besides what resided in the chamber. Her hair was tossed into a low ponytail down her back that revealed just how long her mop of dark hair truly was as it rested only a little over six inches above her behind. They didn't speak while they walked and Rick would have liked to say it was because they were trying to stay alert and vigilant, but he knew it was because he female counterpart was unsure yet about whether or not she cared for his company.

They walked almost five miles before spotting a Walker gnawing on the discarded corpse of a coyote near the edge of the Cynthiana Woods. It was a woman, skin almost completely rotted off her cheeks and long scraggly hair that appeared to have fallen out in large clumps. She paused from her meal to peer up at her fresh potential banquet of human meat (coyote intestine still in her mouth) and gradually climbed from her knees to her feet. Rick instinctively reached for the handgun resting in the back of his jeans and quickly pointed it at the now approaching female Walker. He didn't pull the trigger, however. He would have if it wasn't for the cold metal barrel of another revolver on his temple.

"I swear to Christ if you even think about pulling that trigger I will make sure to put a quick end to what I can only assume was a lifetime of appalling life choices," she hissed with a deadly expression upon her face. Only Rick's eyes moved to look at Charlotte. He gritted his teeth and slowly placed his handgun in the back of his jeans once again. "Good boy. One gunshot will attract Walkers for miles around, so don't let me see you touch that gun again unless it is an absolute last resort – _an absolute last resort_. You got me, Cowboy?"

Rick reluctantly nodded, Charlotte's Beretta still pressed against his temple for a moment more. She finally put her gun away as well, slid her bow over her shoulder to grip her tire iron in both hands like a baseball bat.

"Watch and learn," she said without looking back at Rick. She almost galloped as she motioned forward to meet their impending Walker. Charlotte swung in a swift downward motion, thrusting the curve of the crowbar into the Walker's skull. It fell to the earth – dead and this time for good. Charlotte looked down at her kill with pride before pivoting back to Rick. "And _that_ is how it's done."

"Impressive," said Rick sarcastically. "I'm glad we had to walk miles away from safety so you could show me how to bash someone's brains in."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied, gripping her chest in faux dramatic gasp. "I thought I saw your stupid ass almost waste precious ammunition on _one_ Walker – my mistake."

"She was coming right for us–"

"First of all, that thing is not a_ she – _maybe once but not anymore," she said, rapidly stomping forward. "Never consider Walkers to be people. They're not people and as soon as you come to terms with that fact you'll be much better off. Someday you may run into a Walker that you knew when they were human – neighbors, friends and maybe even family. You cannot hesitate to kill them – not even for a second – because they sure as hell won't hesitate to eat you alive. Trust me; you're doing them a favor by putting 'em out of their misery."

"How can you know for sure that their old self isn't still trapped in there somewhere, struggling to–"

"I know," she insisted definitively. "I've survived almost three months out here on my own. I've killed more Walkers than I can even begin to count and there wasn't anything human left in any of 'em."

"You've been on your own?" asked Rick, knowing it was wise to lead the conversation down a different course. "I thought you were with Morgan and Duane."

"For now," she replied. "I'll stay a couple nights with groups I run in to that aren't just as vicious as Walkers. I've never stayed with one more than a week. I'm headed south, and I don't intend on making camp for long along the way. Besides, I like it on my own, it just means I'm with the only person I can always rely on to watch my back."

"Where are you headed?"

"Louisiana," she replied.

"Where did you come from?"

"New York."

"What's in Louisiana?"

"Can we just get back to the task at hand already?" said Charlotte, obviously anxious to change the subject. She looked up at the sky, surveying the darkening clouds above. "I'd like to see you kill at least one Walker before it downpours again."

With that, Charlotte took a firm grip on her crowbar, adjusted the arrows on her back and trekked onward towards the town square. Rick didn't follow her at first, realizing she probably wouldn't have looked back to make sure he was trailing after her. They didn't get much further before two more Walkers could be seen approaching from behind the old family market.

"You ready?" asked Charlotte, propping up an arrow on her bow before pulling back the string to aim. "Remember to go for the brain."

Charlotte then released her arrow, striking a scrawny male Walker in the head and knocking him dead. Rick was suddenly struck with a surge of adrenaline. He raised the metal bat, released a loud battle cry and sprinted towards the Walker in such a rage that Charlotte even paused in surprise. Rick swung and nearly decapitated the large male Walker. Once the Walker fell to the earth Rick swung multiple times and smashed its head to mush. He was out of breath and shaking from his head to his toes. Blood was splattered on his face like a hungry animal. When Rick killed his first Walker it wasn't just the pleasure of putting an end to a potential threat. No, every swing of his bat meant something to him. He beat that nameless Walker for Carl, for Lori, for the nearly three months he'd lived in the dark, for the loss of his job, of his home, Shane and the rest of his friends that he'd grown-up with. He beat that Walker for the past he'd been forced to leave behind, the present that had been thrust unwillingly upon him and the uncertain future he'd be forced to bear.

Thick drops of rain began to fall from the blackening sky, thinning the dark splatters of blood upon Rick's muddled face. Neither of them spoke for a long while, allowing the cool raindrops to cleanse them. It was finally Rick who spoke first, sloppily wiping his face clean.

"It's raining," he said simply.

"Yeah," said Charlotte, looking up at the angry sky as if she only just noticed, "it is."

"I know where we're at," he replied. "My grandma used to live in an old house a block south. We can wait out the storm there."

Charlotte nodded, wiping the rain from her face and jogged after Rick. It wasn't hard to spot the house Rick was leading her to. His grandmother's house was the biggest house on the street, towering over all of the aging buildings in sight. It was a large Victorian home with a deep purple roof. Charlotte knew it must have been beautiful in its prime, long before the outbreak. However, wild vines now climbed the walls, broken shutters dangled over the withered siding. Rick wasn't fazed by the condition of the house. He took the crowbar from Charlotte's loose grip and pried open the front door that was sealed shut by a couple two-by-fours. With one swift kick Rick forced open the front door and slammed it closed behind them. The pair pushed an ancient sofa and coffee table in front of the door to prevent any unwanted visitors. After a sweep of the house for any Walkers, Rick and Charlotte returned to the drawing room to watch the now fierce storm taking place outside.

"So did your gran still live here before you… you know?" asked Charlotte, discarding her weapons on the floor and flopping down on an oversized armchair so her legs dangled over the side.

"Nah," said Rick, sitting down on the couch across from her to face the large front window. "She died a long time ago, just before Carl was born."

"And Carl was your kid?"

"Yeah," he said in an almost pained tone. "Carl _is_ my son."

"Sorry," she said in a way that sounded anything but apologetic. "I'm just so used to having to refer to people in past tense that it's just second nature to me at this point."

"So you said before you've been surviving in all of _this_ for almost three months on your own," said Rick.

"You do comprehend English," she smirked sarcastically. "What's your point?"

"Why are you on your own?"

Charlotte was visibly taken aback by such a question. She turned her head to meet his gaze, giving him a very appraising look. She slowly turned her attention back to the ceiling, kicking her legs ever so carelessly over the arm of her hideously upholstered chair.

"It's like I told you before – I like being on my own," she said.

"Right," he said slowly.

"Are you forgetting that you too are alone in this grand adventure?"

"But not willingly," he replied. "As soon as I get my strength back in a day or two – I'm going to find my family."

"I hope you have better luck than most folks," said Charlotte. "There are more Walkers than Talkers out there if you haven't already noticed."

"I've noticed," he sighed. "I just don't understand how all of this happened. The last day I was conscious… it was fine…"

"Well, it happened fast," she explained. "There were a few incidents at first but then it spread like wildfire. There was no explanation, no cure, and no answer to why. It was the worst in big cities. I was lucky enough to get out of New York before they quarantined the city."

"I can't picture you living in New York City," said Rick with a curt laugh.

"I'm obviously not from there, dipshit," she frowned. "I told you, I'm from Louisiana. I've just lived in New York since I was eighteen."

"So for what – 6 months?" he teased.

"Almost seven years," she replied, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head in jest.

"Well, you sure didn't lose your accent or that infamous southern charm," he leered.

"Fuck off," she said, throwing an ugly decorative pillow at his head.

"Yep, the proper etiquette of a true southern belle," he said, catching the pillow before it hit him in the face and immediately throwing it back at her.

"You know, Rick Grimes, your company was pretty much forced on me because of this goddamn apocalypse," said Charlotte with a quiet smile. "But I'm startin' to think I wouldn't have minded it so much before the world went shit."

It was still raining a couple hours later, pouring actually, and that was not necessarily a bad thing because Charlotte loved storms. It was one of the few things she still loved really. She had become much like a summer storm, dark and dismal, terrifyingly beautiful with brief moments of illumination that lasted no more than a second, growing few and far between as it progressed. She never had a problem with rain, getting wet and messy. She had spent the better half of her youth skipping mud puddles and catching raindrops on her tongue. She couldn't bring herself to remember any pleasant memories now, for she feared the stone shell she had worked so hard to perfect would shatter before her navy blue eyes. Her shell would shatter and her greatest fear that she was nothing but hollow would be proven true. The current state of the world had made her that way, many could argue, but she knew better. Charlotte had been this way for as long as she could remember and she had one hell of a good memory.

Georgia had suffered an unyielding drought all summer, mocking the already dire circumstance of humanity. However, the last couple days provided some relief as thunderstorms proved more frequent. Rick decided upon a nap, crossing his arms over his chest as he sprawled out on the old velvet chase. Charlotte sat in silence, listening to Rick's dull snores and the calming sounds from the storm outside. It was nice. It was nice until a roar of thunder was rudely interrupted by her roar of hunger.

Quietly climbing to her feet, Charlotte went in search of any morsel of food that may have been left behind by the home's previous owner. Walls of family portraits littered the long hallway to a door sporting a large decorative spoon and fork that led the young woman to believe a kitchen would be located on the other side. Propping the door ajar, she made her way into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets, scouring for canned goods. Charlotte found two jars of black olives that made her mouth water before she noticed a small cubbyhole revealing a cork just out of her reach. Assuming it was a bottle of wine, she leveraged her knee onto the counter top and reached out her arm to grab the bottle.

However, a loud _BOOM_ startled her, it was a gunshot from just behind her. Her body tensed up, causing her to fall from the counter, bringing the wine down with her and somehow managing to cradle the bottle in her lap. Charlotte instantly panicked once she got a good look at what had happened. An ancient female Walker lay dead on the tile floor just before her, blood oozing at her feet. A gunshot wound had been her end as a small flood of red blood was flowing from her skull. Charlotte's eyes slowly rose to the figure standing above herself and the dead Walker, smoke still escaping the barrel. His face was expressionless as he extending his hand to help his female counterpart to her feet.

"Sorry," he breathed, gripping her trembling palm. "It was a last resort."

–

_**A/N:**__ You guys are awesome. Thank you for all the reviews. It means a lot! I know we don't know much about Charlie yet, but I promise you will in the next chapter. Rick likes her because she lives her life in the present and doesn't think people should live in the past. Little does Rick know how fast a person's past can catch up with them…_

_**Coming Soon:**__ Rick meets the group and finds his family with a suspicious item and Charlotte returns home to Louisiana. _

_**Review.**_


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